But if Naszif was guilty, then the Living might be clutching an asp to itsbosom.

Was it his place to be concerned? He had a sentimental, romantic attachment tothe Living, but no commitment. He wasn't sure he really wanted them to doanything about the occupation. Some out-of-the-dark, miraculous triumph by thediehards might hurt him more than it helped.

Before the coming of Herod his life had been good. But it was better now. Hegot paid more. And there was as much work as he wanted, so that he could takehome as much money as he wanted. And the Herodian operators never tried tocheat a man of his wages.

He had prospered under the Herodian occupation. He had been lucky. To balancethe extra mouths in his household Aram in his kindness had given him nodaughters to dowry. He had almost enough saved to get his family out of theShu, over the hill, and into the Astan, where they could have a decent life.

If Laella did not become pregnant in the next year ...

He could work for himself in the Astan, doing work he enjoyed. Building shipsrequired craftsmanship but allowed no scope for individual vision or artistry.

Among the few concrete certainties in Aaron's world was his conviction thatNaszif had opened that postern in that tower.

Coming home last night he had asked Laella who she considered to be her bestfriend. He had gotten the expected answer without hesitation or reflection: Reyha. Then he had asked who she considered her worst enemy, or who she mosthated. Consciously he had anticipated hearing the name of a neighbor with whomshe had been feuding for years. But unconsciously, maybe, he had expectedsomething akin to the answer he did get after several minutes of reflection.

"The people who made Taidiki kill himself."

And that was ambiguous enough to include almost everyone.

He had wanted to narrow it a little, maybe get a hint of how she would feel ifhe told her about Naszif and the postern, but just then the man had come outof the fog like a specter, startling and frightening them, and had gainedreality only after he had passed them and his feet had begun hitting theground. After that they were too nervous to do anything but hurry for home anda door that could lock out the frights of the night.

Aaron wanted to talk. To Laella preferably, but to anyone who might show him apath out of his quandary. The situation had led him to a shocking realization.

He had no friends. He did not know anyone he trusted enough to ask advice. His ties beyond his family were tenuous and transitory, involving men with whom he worked. Men who, for the most part, he never saw again after a job was over.

What had become of the close friends of youth?

Dak-es-Souetta, mostly. Mish asked, "Are you working today, Aaron?"

The boys started in before he could answer. "Don't go to work today, Dad. Stay home, Dad." It was a minor Herodian religious holiday and he could take the day off. If hedid, though, tomorrow he would have to present his Herodian employers with anattendance token from one of the Herodian temples. A price he did not care topay. Not to mention not wanting to lose the income. And maybe get a badreputation. That mast step had to go in today.

"Yes. I'm working."

"Oh, Dad!"

Mish scowled. That meant she had to manage the household at least till Laella rose.

The Herodians did not take off for minor holidays.

Aaron said nothing to Mish, but he added her to his mental agenda. He was fed up with her sulks and pouts and shirkings. If she thought she had it so bad here, let her go out there and try to whine her way through the real world.

"Dad! Stafa's got to pee."

"No, I don't!" Stafa stood slightly hunched, one hand gripping his crotch.

"Go pee in the pot, Stafa."

"No."

"Stafa, go pee in the pot." "No!"

The boy had reached that stage of housebreaking where he was aware of what he had to do but still fervently opposed having to do it for himself. "I'll spank your butt." "Carry me, Dad."

"Carry you? You get over there."

"No. Carry me."

"Come here, you argumentative little rat."

All trust, Stafa came to him. He grabbed the boy's right foot, lifted it while Stafa clung to his shoulder for balance. "You see this, Stafa? What's this?"

"That's my foot."

Aaron shifted to Stafa's left foot. "And what's this?"

"That's my other foot."

"And why do you think the Good Lord Aram put feet on the ends of your legs?"

Stafa did not pause to think. He just said it. "To keep my toes pointing out."

Everyone laughed but Arif. Even Mish. Stafa grinned, though he understood nobetter than Arif. Aaron rose. "All right, brat. You win." He grabbed Stafaunder the arms and carried him to the chamber pot. The boy wiggled and kickedhappily.

It was a story to tell at work.

It took his mind off his troubles. Mish handed him his usual lunch of bread, cheese, and sausage and he took off.

The sun had not yet risen.

Glop! Plop! Slop! In quick succession the Qushmarrahan cooks filled Yoseh'sbowl with a three-ounce chunk of blubbery flesh cooked forever and an hour, six ounces of some mushy stuff that might have started life in a grain field, and half a small loaf that was meant to be broken into pieces and used to dipthe mush.

"Oh, boy," Yoseh said. "I was hoping we'd have this stuff again this morning."

They had had the same thing every morning since he had come to the city.

Mo'atabar, whose duties approximated those of a sergeant to a commander of ahundred in the Herodian army, said, "Every day is feast day in Qushmarrah, where the streets are paved with gold."

That came every morning, too, just like the mush. It was one of Mo'atabar'sdaily rituals, like his inevitable serenade in the barracks each morning, while dawn was still an uncertain impulse in the councils of the gods. "Riseand shine, my children. Rise and shine. It's another glorious day in servicein the city of lead and gold."

The men always laughed when Mo'atabar did one of his things. Yoseh knew he wasbeing sarcastic and making mock of tribal ideas about Qushmarrah, but he didnot see the humor.

He and his brothers and cousins settled to eat. Nobody said much. Nogah was ina grim mood. What last night had looked like an opportunity to do somethingunusual and maybe make a splash had turned on him. This morning the word wasthat the whole troop was going in to work on the Shu maze. One hundredeighteen men, not eight. Mo'atabar and his uncle Joab, the captain, would baskin the warmth of Fa'tad's approval if the operation uncovered something al- Akla wanted to find.

Yoseh suspected Fa'tad had had one of his visions, or intuitions, orinspirations, or whatever they were, and had decided that the Shu maze wassufficiently important to rate more manpower and the watchful eye of one of his oldest cronies.

Joab was one of those half dozen men who had flown wingtip-to-wingtip with theEagle for forty years.

Nogah ought to think about that and not about his hurt feelings.

The sun was still just an imminent threat when the troop rode out of thecompound and turned toward the Gate of Autumn. Yoseh and his companions rodepoint. An honor, of sorts, but one Yoseh was willing to forgo if things shouldlook like they were getting sticky.

He had not come to Qushmarrah to become the hero of epic adventures, nor toget dead.

The gate was not yet open. Other traffic was arriving, too, piling up in thesmall square the gate towers commanded. Joab rode forward and began cursingthe sleepy Herodian gatemen in their own language, calling them the sons ofwhores, feeders on the dung of camels, and suppurating pustules upon themanhood of their god. Joab did not like Herodians. He insulted Herodiansoldiers every chance he got, in repayment for the insult implicit in the factthat the Herodian military commander required the tribesmen to be out of thecity and in their compound by nightfall every evening.